Back in the mid-90s, I was an obese Shenandoah Middle School kid with more baby fat than self-esteem, stranded after school when I missed the bus or my grandfather couldn't scoop me up. And where did I end up? Not at home with a snack, not on the streets getting into trouble--nope. My babysitter was the Shenandoah Library.
This place saved me. It was air-conditioned (a gift in Miami), quiet (unless I was breathing heavy down the book aisles), and mercifully free. I'd wander the stacks pretending to look studious but really hoping to stumble across a forbidden "naked lady book." Spoiler alert: no luck. When that mission failed, I'd lock myself in the bathroom for way too long, only to get the inevitable librarian knock: "Kid, are you still in there?" Yeah, I was. Don't judge me--at least I wasn't out buying Hot Cheetos.
And yet, between the failed nudie hunts and the bathroom marathons, I actually discovered books. Real ones. Stories that made me laugh, wonder, and eventually fall in love with reading. Shenandoah Library didn't just keep me off the streets--it accidentally gave me a lifelong obsession with words.
Not because it was perfect--libraries in the 90s smelled like dust and faint mildew--but because it tolerated me. It gave me refuge when I was awkward, overweight, and searching for something (besides naked ladies). It was patient, forgiving, and quietly life-changing.
Shenandoah Library: where a chubby kid found air-conditioning, refuge, and a love of books--even if the librarians had to drag him out of the bathroom to do it. read more